


darling don't hold back

by coriandrumsativum



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Eating out, Multi, a bunch of dirty dirty spies, female orgasm, napoleon solo is a terrible influence, wet orgasm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-05 02:53:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11004468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coriandrumsativum/pseuds/coriandrumsativum
Summary: The first time Napoleon goes down on her, she surprises herself.





	darling don't hold back

**Author's Note:**

> I realized I haven’t seen a single wet orgasm fic in this fandom (or frankly ever) so I fixed it. Ur welcome.

Tension is starting to coil at the base of her spine, and along with it come the first hints of relief. It always takes longer than she expects, and every time she wonders if she'll actually be able to get there. This sweet tightening, the licks of anticipation beginning to spread outward through her hips – as far as she's concerned, orgasm starts there.

She can't help the broken little moan she gives as it starts to build, and Solo smiles against her and flicks her clit with his tongue. He has a finger in her, but only barely, rubbing maddening circles against the rough wall just inside her entrance. Her hips buck, and he follows them up, never losing contact.

She's getting closer, feeling it build, but there's something else, too – a pressure she's not used to, a need she hasn't felt before. She feels her cunt swelling with it, pushing back against Solo’s finger and lips of its own volition. He hums, pleased, and she moans again at the sensation.

Illya's behind her, holding her against his chest, pressing kisses against her neck and cupping her breasts through the thin lace of her bra. Her own hands are fisted in the sheets; if she had them in Solo’s hair, he'd be bald by now.

The strange fullness builds along with her incipient orgasm, adding deliciously to her anticipation. His nose skims across the most sensitive spot, and she jerks forward with a little gasp as her stomach muscles tighten without warning.

“Solo,” she grinds out, core tightening inch by fluttering inch and sweet, sweet sensation growing behind her clit, “I’m going to– I’m going– I–” 

He crooks his finger against that spot inside of her, grazing it with his nail, and licks a firm stripe from his finger all the way up into her hood. Then he sucks her, hard, and she screws her eyes shut and gives in to the need to _push_. For an instant that lasts an eternity, nothing happens, and she groans her desperate frustration. Then there's a dribble of liquid, a wetness that isn't her usual slick. Whatever it is, it's not enough, and she doesn't know what it is but she knows that she wants more. She's so close, she can feel it building, feel it coming, she's so close, so— Something gives, and suddenly there’s a fountain of water spraying out from between her legs and she's not normally vocal when she comes but oh, ohhhhh, _ohhhhhhhh._

She can _hear_ it rushing out of her, hear it splattering onto the floor, but that's nothing compared to the sensation. It’s like nothing she's ever experienced, filthy and crass and _heavenly_ , the sort physical release she thought only men could enjoy. She's hunched forward, every muscle in her stomach and chest contracted almost painfully tight, and her orgasm is pulsing through her but she wants more of that water, more of that release. She wants more _come_. She tightens even further, hips stuttering up, and gets another spurt. It's smaller this time, not as forceful, and soaks the sheets under her hips, but still she grunts with sheer animal pleasure and tries again and again, trying to wring every bit of it from her. 

Eventually she runs dry, but those delicious pulses are still rolling through her cunt, and she lets herself go loose and fall back against Illya’s chest, breathing hard. 

Some part of her mind registers how hard he is against her lower back, and how carefully and deliberately he’s breathing, but that's less important than the way he's sweeping the sweaty hair off her forehead with one hand and running the other in long, smooth strokes down the planes of her stomach. 

“You made a mess,” he rumbles. It's probably supposed to be teasing, but his voice is low and husky and even as he says it, she can feel his cock twitch between them. 

“All the greats do,” says Solo’s voice, and her eyes fly open because damn, she'd completely forgotten about him, and— Sheiße, his _face_. But he's no longer on the ground at the foot of the bed, between her knees where she last saw him. He still has his finger pressed against that spot in her, but he’s off to one side.

“Did I—” she starts, but he smiles lazily and shakes his head. He looks entirely too proud of himself.

“I can tell when it’s time to dodge,” he says, sounding amused. “I didn't expect it to be so prolific, though. You're a natural.” He pats her knee and stands, only then removing his finger. Of the three of them, he's by far the most clothed – his shirt is still tucked into his trousers, even, though the sleeves are rolled up and the top button’s undone. “Want to taste?” he asks innocently, and holds the finger out to Illya. 

Illya growls, and hauls Solo down for a messy, passionate kiss that leaves them both breathless and disheveled. “Strip,” Illya manages, and while Solo hastens to obey he circles around to the foot of the bed to clean Gaby up properly, licking her gently but thoroughly. He’s like a cat cleaning its kitten, and she snickers at the thought. 

“Something funny?” he asks mildly. 

“You two are ridiculous,” she says. 

“Excuse me,” Solo says, managing to sound dignified and affronted even though he's shirtless and his trousers are open. “I think you could come up with a better word for me than _that."_

“Sorry. Illya, you’re ridiculous. Solo, you’re a very talented slut.”

“Thank you,” he says primly, and climbs back onto the bed. He's still wearing his tight white underwear, which has Illya frowning up at him from his spot on the floor. “Darling,” he says to Gaby, “would you mind terribly if I borrowed Illya?”

She waves a lazy hand. “As long as you bring him back with a full tank.”

Solo snorts. “Oh, I don't think I can promise that at all.”

Illya presses one last kiss to the inside of her knee, then stands and scoops her up. She squawks, but he settles her against the pillows on one side of the bed and yes, that's much more comfortable. A much better view, too. 

“Next to her, Peril, if you don’t mind,” Solo says, and Illya arranges himself against the headboard beside her. 

Solo climbs onto his lap, grins, and kisses him again. It starts out chaste, but before long Illya has his hands on Solo’s hips like he’s trying to shatter them and Solo has Illya’s face between his hands like he’ll never let go. Then Solo rocks his hips against Illya's, and Illya groans and pushes him away. “Take these off,” he orders, pawing at the waistband of Solo’s briefs, but Solo catches his hands and rocks his hips again, slow and deliberate, doing absolutely nothing to hide the swell of his cock, straining against the fabric. Illya chokes. Solo smiles brightly, an impish gleam in his eye. 

“Gaby seemed to quite enjoy making a mess,” he says. “I think I'd like to make a mess, too.” 

Illya swears. Solo smirks. Gaby settles in to watch. 

Absolutely ridiculous, the both of them, but there's no one she'd rather have.

**Author's Note:**

> same story, same writer, just a new account. did I make a new account purely so I could post porn? yes I did.


End file.
